Watson, a murderer?
by PeppermintChill
Summary: Watson was a doctor, he saved people. The complete opposite of murder. If that was true, than why was he standing above a dead body? Rated M for later smut and violence and what not.


Watson wasn't a murderer. Taking lives wasn't something he did, he saved them. A doctor was what he was. Doctors don't kill people. Well, sometimes accidentally

but he had never once lost a patient. He was more skilled than that. A very skilled doctor indeed.

If this was true, then why was his clothing tainted in blood. Why did the sword that he always had hidden away, tucked securly in his walking cane from a casual on-lookers eye have a coating of the red liquid over it's thin, piercingly sharp, silver blade.

His blue eyes were clouded with anger. Everything seemed to be a haze, a red hue surrounding every object. He could not seem to comprehend the scene before him. As long as he stared at it, it seemed so...so surreal. It was funny...He never pictured himself as the type to kill. Yet, here he stood. With the lifeless body of a woman, that lay with the fresh, warm liquid spilling all around her.

Slowly, he watched it seep from her throat and he felt his breath begin to even out. It had been heavy before. Deep, shaky and uncontrollable as rage impaired his thoughts.

Another inhale, slow, deep. Following a long exhale. Again, and he could finally begin to feel the anger dying. His body relaxing. He had felt anxious before, but with the long sigh of relief that fled past his lips following his relaxation, it had disappeared. A smile took place on his thin lips and he lowered the sword. Allowing the peace to set in. Allowing his body to feel at ease as he stood there.

W-wait...

Suddenly a new wave of emotions flushed through his body. His eyes widened as realization hit him. By hit him, he meant it _really _hit him. _Hard. _

His hands began to shake and his lips twitched. He felt sick to his stomach. His free hand moving to rest on his abdomen. He was going to vomit, that's how sick he felt.

His eyes sparked with fear and he brought the sword up. Examining his gloved hand that seemed to hardly be able to keep a hold of his weapon. His eyes snapped from his unsteady hand to the blade. Watching blood slowly trail down it.

Dr. John Watson, a man many people respected. Someone high in social status, had just murdered an innocent woman. An innocent woman who had meant no harm to him...

Eyes shutting tight, Watson bit onto his bottom lip. Shaking his head in denial as he pushed his sword back into his cane. Hiding it back from the world. His breath hitched as he glanced one last time at the scene and his hand quickly cupped to his mouth. He turned, to fast, on his heel. Disregarding the pain that shot through his leg, warning him that he had used the wrong one to turn on. That didn't stop him. He didn't care. He just wanted to get away, get home. To do what he had originally tended to do. Take a nice, hot bath and go to bed.

Watson fiddled with his keys. His hands preventing him from finding the correct one for a good amount of time. Finally, he shoved a small silver key into the lock and twisted it. Pushing the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

A quick turn of the wrist, and his ears picked up on a soft '_click' _as he locked the door. His chest was rising and falling quickly from fear, from rushing to get away. He rested his head against the door, his left hand still on the lock as his right pressed to the wood near his head. Closing his eyes, Watson began to breath deeply.

In, and out. Again, twice more. Why couldn't he get this feeling out of his chest? Anxiety was building slowly, agonizingly slow and his head wouldn't stop racing.

_What if they find me? Will I be sentenced to death for murder? Will I be forgiven, can I plead not guilty? Will they believe me if I deny that I had anything to do with the murder? _

What are you saying, Watson! Of course they will believe you!

His eyes opened and he released the anxiety with one, long exhale. He was a man of high society. He had served in the military. He saved life's daily and _so_ many looked to him. A doctor. He was a doctor, not a killer.

The medic felt content with this knowledge. Knowing he would not easily become a suspect. There was no form of evidence left behind. No, if he were to ever get caught it was not likely to happen soon. At least he could have time. Time to plan out what he would do if he were to ever be caught. Right now though, all he wanted to do was sleep. Rest was needed desperately and he wasn't a man who ignored his body's needs.

He unbuttoned his pants, letting them drop to the floor of the bathroom and kicking them off from around his ankles. He slipped off his waist coat and undid each button of his collared shirt while allow the tub to fill. Bringing his arms behind him, he allowed the white, blood stained shirt to fall from his shoulders. He turned to the mirror above the sink and stared into it. His body was still fit, well-defined stomach. His arms were still muscular and he was over all well built. But he was beginning to lose that. The main difference from now and then was the scar on his left leg from being shot, and permanently damaged. His hair was short, as it has always been. Well kept. Everything about him was well kept. He was a very organized wasn't as attractive as he was in his days of serving. He couldn't blame himself though, he was much more active back in his younger days.

As the tub became full, John turned the knob and halted the water. He stepped in and gripped the sides of the tub, gradually lowering himself into the steaming hot water. He felt his muscles untighten as the heat loosened them. It felt so refreshing...

He closed his eyes, leaning his back against the tub and allowing a sigh move past his lips. For about thirty minutes this lasted before he decided he had been in long enough and washed himself up. Pushing himself up and stepping out of the tub.

Reaching for a towel, he dried himself off and wrapped it around his waist before heading toward his room. Pulling on some clean, night clothes and laying down in his tugged the thick blanket over himself and rested his head comfortably in his cloud-like pillow.

His eyes slipped close and he allowed sleep to take over him. His mind continuously flashed with images of the woman's dead body. It made it difficult to sleep. He was going to feel like hell at work tomorrow if he didn't get enough sleep. He wasn't used to staying up all night, his body needed it's rest to function at full capacity. Around two in the morning is when he had finally fallen asleep. He had to wake up in just five more hours.

Really, he wasn't a murderer. He only had a bad day at work and was not in the mood for the pushy woman. He told her exactly six times to please leave him alone and allow him to leave but she just wouldn't get off.

It was really just a bad day for him. He wasn't a murderer.

He was a doctor.

* * *

Well, I randomly got this idea.

Sherlock will show up in the next chapter.

Tell me what you think, I need some criticism. I feel like I didn't write this very well. ):

My second story on here. I hope people will like it.

:)

Thank you for reading!


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